221B Baker Street
by LadyoftheDoves
Summary: With a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective, life is sure to be interesting. Short stories about life at 221B.
1. Chapter 1

I'm not smart, but I like to observe. Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why.

William Hazlitt

 _"John!"_

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what do you want from me at three in the morning?"

"Pen."

John tossed him one that was lying on the detective's desk and went back to bed. About fifteen minutes later, he heard Sherlock calling him again.

"What is it now?" John asked, glaring at his flatmate who continued staring out the window incomprehensibly.

Sherlock turned around and John noticed his face was slightly red.

"Um, John, could you get me some of that...food you bought earlier today?"

"Why can't you go get it yourself? And what do you mean by food? You know how much I bought today."

"Um, you know, those red things you bought. Round shaped? Shiny? The sweet ones?"

"An apple?"

"Yes! Precisely! An _apple!_ Finally!"

Sherlock rushed past John and into the kitchen, where he promptly poked through an unpacked bag of groceries until he found a glistening red apple.

John stared for a few seconds and closed his eyes momentarily.

"You deleted apples."

"Of course I did. All fruit, in fact, for that case we had over a month ago."

"Did you delete anything else stupid?" asked John, remembering other incidents where Sherlock deleting something had lead to disastrous results, such as when he had deleted table manners and forgotten how to count money.

Sherlock took a slow bite of his apple.

"I just _may_ have deleted the name of that incredibly annoying brother of mine," he replied, walking calmly out of the room.

 **Okay, that wasn't that bad. I read this one in a headcanon, but I'll probably use some ideas I already have, and some random words in books for the future if I choose to continue this. Thanks for reading this, and please review and tell me what you think or if you have any ideas!**

 **UPDATE- Just want to say that if you have just found this and have formed an opinion that this chapter, and the story as a whole, is crappy,** **I _strongly_ urge you to take a look at the newest chapter, whatever it may be, and then form your opinion of this story by reading that instead. I promise you, I will get better at writing over time, and I don't think it is quite fair to judge me solely on my oldest, and frankly speaking, worst work. I will find out what this fandom likes. What my readers like. And by the time I hit that complete button, I _will_ have written things ten times as better as this.**

 **So go and have a look at my latest chapter! Couldn't hurt, right?**


	2. Chapter 2

"Where words fail, music speaks."

Hans Christian Andersen

"Sherlock! I'm back. Glad to see you haven't wrecked the flat."

"We're out of milk."

Rolling his eyes at his flatmate, John unpacked his things from a weekend visit to his parents.

"By the way, I found this in the attic," John said, showing Sherlock an old, dusty, black leather-covered case. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but remained motionless as John unlatched the case. He pulled a few pieces of black wood, covered in silver keys, out of the box and twisted them together.

"I bought this," John told Sherlock as he fished a tiny box out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a small piece of thin wood. "I want to see how much I remember from school." He fiddled with his instrument for a few moments before correctly positioning the reed onto the clarinet. He raised it to his mouth, took a moment to place his hands over the keys, and blew. A soft low note, followed by a loud squeak.

Sherlock looked amused. Reaching across the coffee table, he pushed random keys on the clarinet as John attempted to play.

"Can I try holding it?" Sherlock asked, extending his hand.

John handed over the clarinet and watched as his friend tried to hold the instrument.

"No, your pinky goes there, no there, your thumb here, that there..."

Sherlock made an attempt to make a sound, which resulted in a fuzzy note punctured with several squeaks.

John watched as his flatmate made several more attempts to play before Sherlock handed back the clarinet.

"Reed instruments. Too...boring."

Sherlock picked up his violin and tucked it under his chin.

"And I suppose violins are much better?"

"Excellent deduction John. Really, marvelous," the detective said, voice dripping with sarcasm as he raised his bow over the strings.

"Why did you want to play violin?"

"When we were younger, Mycroft and I heard some musicians playing at a park. After a few songs, Mother asked which instrument we liked best. Mycroft said that he liked the piccolos and that the violins sounded like tortured mice. I said the exact opposite. We got into a row after that, and Mother grounded us both for a week for starting a brawl in the park." Sherlock smiled faintly at the memory. "Mycroft got a piccolo that Christmas and started taking lessons. I got my violin for my tenth birthday." He swept the bow deftly over the strings in one fluid motion.

"Sherlock," John asked, taking his clarinet apart and putting it away as he spoke, "does your brother still play his piccolo?"

"Of course he does. He's practically in love with that peice of metal," Sherlock smirked.

"And you're in love with a peice of wood."

The detective considered this for a moment.

"Well, I guess it's only slightly more ridiculous," he grinned.

 **This is really short. I guess I didn't notice until now because I do most of my typing and reading for fanfiction on my phone...**

 **I got the idea of holding another person's instrument and pressing random keys while another person is playing from when I go to the band room before school to practice. The percussionists are fascinated by the keys, and I've held lots of clarinets while showing my friends how to hold my flute.**

 **Big thanks to everyone who has followed this story. I'm glad you liked it!**


	3. Tea

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock...

"Where there's tea there's hope."

-Arthur Wing Pinero

John opened the door to the musty-smelling cupboard, brown eyes scanning the shelves until they fixed on a small dark box in the very back of the top shelf. Stretching his arm out and standing on his toes to reach it, he removed it from the old cupboard and set it down on the counter. He opened the box and lifted out a teabag, dropping it directly into a mug. The water in the kettle had started to boil by then, and John grabbed it and poured its steaming contents into the mug. He made his way to the fridge for some milk. Ignoring the bag of what seemed to be bloody human ears, the doctor picked up the white cardboard carton and headed back to the counter. He poured the milk into the mug and then put it back in the fridge. He picked up the mug, feeling the warmth seep into his fingers, the steam brush gently against his face, the familiar smell seep into his nose. He raised the cup to his lips, about to take the first sip, when his flatmate burst into the room, hair disheveled, shirt rumpled, eyes wide, causing John to start, spilling hot tea all over himself.

 _"John, whatever you do, don't drink the mi-"_

Sherlock took in his friend's shocked expression...and then registered the tea split all over his throat, his hands, and the front his jumper, which were now all glowing a bright, brilliant blue.

 _"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am going to murder you and I will make it look like an accident!"_

So it wasn't that much of a surprise to the famous detective when he ended up running for his life from a raging army doctor glowing bright blue at seven in the morning.

 **Super short filler chapter! I know John doesn't know Sherlock's full name until season three, but I just couldn't resist putting it in there.**

 **Thanks to TheHolmesSister for the very kind, encouraging, and very first reveiw!**

 **Please leave me a review if you have any requests for this story! I have some ideas, but I'd love to hear from some of the lovely people who read this!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer- I don't own BBC Sherlock.**

"If you want to have clean ideas, change them as often as your shirt."

-Francis Picabia

John sighed miserably he came home from work, kicking his shoes away and tugging his jacket off as he walked through the flat's door, wanting nothing more than a peaceful evening and a nice cup of tea. However, the sight that awaited John would make him want to bang his head against the wall.

Repeatedly.

" _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock, put a shirt on!

" No."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, I will not have you wandering around the flat half naked because you can't be bothered to put on a stupid shirt! What if we get a client?"

Unfortunatly for Sherlock, John was in a particularly irratable mood that day, as was to be expected after a full day dealing with sniveling, coughing, whining patients.

He may have been over reacting, but at that point, he was simply past caring.

"I can't!" Sherlock wailed, raising one hand to show John his swollen, bandage covered fingers.

"I can't put the buttons on," Sherlock complained.

"What the _hell_ did you do to your hands? And why can't you just wear your pyjamas? No wait, let me guess, you burned them up while mutilating your own hands!"

"Actually, I tried washing said shirts myself because they were dirty and the public laundry is too far, and I had some sort of reaction to the detergent. Apparently you can't just pour a bottle of the stuff into the bathtub and then stick your hands in there."

"Jesus... Remind me why I live with you again?"

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Before John could stop him, Sherlock was up at the door, and swinging it open.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

The detective inspector stared at Sherlock's lack of a shirt for longer than John expected before speaking.

"Bloody hell..."

 **That was shorter than I'd like...**

 **Much shorter...**

 **It looks worse now, but sleep deprived me thinks it's fine.**

 **But it's not good enough!**

 **Okay, I'm not going to give excuses, but my absence really boils down to three things; 1) School comes first, 2) Doctor Who, and 3) I'm lazy. Incredibly lazy.**

 **Guest** **: Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed reading!**

 **Well then, once I get my life back in order, I'll try to post better chapters, and longer ones too.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	5. Undercover

This was completely ridiculous.

We had gone undercover several times before, but every time, the location seemed to get more and more ridiculous.

"Hello, I'm Professor Holmes, this is Dr. Watson. Today we're learning about how to murder- I mean- how to...how to calculus!"

"Hello, I'm Mr. Holmes and this is Dr. Watson, we're both professional hairdressers. I see you need new staff at the barbershop?"

It had gotten even worse after Sherlock had gotten that stupid blank paper, the "gift" from an "old friend" (I'm convinced he nicked it) that let him get into any building .

Anyways, it was a hot, sticky, summer's day, and as Sherlock Holmes always managed to do, I was pissed.

"This is embarrassing!" I hiss at Sherlock.

"I did not get shot, did not have a bomb strapped to my chest, and most certainly did not move in with _you_ to stand like this for five hours!"

"Stop complaining! He's near, I feel it!"

"Oh, because the murderer will show up now when he hasn't all day!"

"There!" Sherlock suddenly shouts.

He kicks off his enormous red shoes and quickly darts after the murderer. I try to follow suit, but immediately trip over the too-long trousers and fall flat on my face. I stumble up, wiping both dirt and the heavy coat of white powder from my face with my horrendously striped sleeve as I see Sherlock coming back to where I was standing, criminal in tow.

He fiddles with the handcuffs, attaching the one not on the murder's wrist to a nearby sapling.

"Where were you? I really could have used a gun threat."

"Did you call Lestrade?" I ask, changing the subject as I hand Sherlock my handkerchief, motioning for him to wipe his face.

"I did. They should be here right about...now."

Several police cars pull into view, lights flashing.

Sherlock and I rush to get the ridiculous costumes off. Luckily, I manage to get my wig and the bulbous red nose off my face before Donovan gets out of the police car and starts laughing her head off. Unluckily for Sherlock, he still has curly blue hair and a thick layer of makeup when she whips out her phone to take pictures.

Lovely. Anderson and Donovan now have blackmail.

And now I know one job I never want to do.

Luckily, Sherlock thinks so as well. In the taxi taking us back home, I stare at Donovan's pictures that Lestrade had so kindly texted to me.

"We look ridiculous," I moan as I stare at me and Sherlock in those stupid red and yellow stripes and multicolored spots. He leans over my shoulder to look at my phone then wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"Never mind that. As long as Mycroft never sees those, we're safe."

He smiles slightly at me, a rather rare occurrence.

"I will say one thing though," he says, dropping his voice slightly as we climb out of the cab.

"We're _never_ going to the circus again."

 **Definitely not my best work. I've been working on three very long stories, one of which will be coming out for sure in April, the other two...whenever. I've also got a very complex prank with a friend that we're going to pull on the 1st.**

 **Black fox- thanks for the review and lovley idea! I've wanted to do something with animals for a while (maybe not a cat or dog) but the allergy thing is a great idea as well!**


	6. Fred

When I get out of the shower, Sherlock is draped over the sofa again, head resting on the cushions and feet dangling in midair. I grab his feet and shove them down, making Sherlock fall and tumble to the floor. He groans and sits up.

"What was that for?"

"It's bad for you, Sherlock. Not that you'd care."

"Should I?"

"Well, you make your living by using your brain _and_ your body. Damage your brain, and I'm stuck supporting the two of us and finding you a normal job."

Sherlock scoffs.

"I'm not an idiot John. I won't damage my brain. I'm perfectly in control of how long-"

"You're still damaging your body. All the fast food..."

"What are you, my mother?"

"Damage your body and you end up sitting in a chair at the Diogenes club all day. Like Mycroft."

For once, it seems I have won. The consulting detective curls up like a cat in his chair.

"I'm bored."

I sigh and grab a nearby laptop (I've long since stopped caring which one I used).

I scroll through Sherlock's inbox, which is bursting with emails.

"How about this one?"

"Fred is dead-"

"Of course he's dead. Everyone knows he's dead. He's been dead for years. Stupid Rowling."

I give Sherlock a strange look before I continue.

"Fred was found dead in a locked house Friday night. There was water and broken glass all around him. Susan saw him die, but no one can confirm she killed him, and she can't be arrested anyways. What happned Friday night?"

Sherlock sits back, deep in thought.

After a few minutes, he huffs and gets up from his chair and paces around while I stare at him, amused.

"Where did the murder happen? Come on John, this one's at least a six and I'm bored out of my mind!" Sherlock pulls his coat over his shoulder and gives me a look while I stare at him, unmoved, with an amused smile on my face.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Sherlock," I sigh. "It was from a fan. It's a riddle."

"A riddle?" Sherlock grumbles. "I hate riddles."

He flops back down to the sofa childishly.

"It was a six," I chuckle. "Solve it then, if you're bored."

Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He closes his eyes, deep in thought.

Meanwhile I keep looking through emails, and, after about an hour, I check the clock and decide it's time for bed. I leave Sherlock on the couch, still amused at his riddle-solving abilities.

 **...**

"John!"

Sherlock's voice cuts into the darkness and silence of my room as I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes groggily.

"You better have a pretty damn good reason for waking me up in the middle of the night."

"I can't solve it. Tell me the answer!"

I stare at the consulting detective.

"Are you serious?"

"It makes no sense!"

"Fred is a fish."

Realization flashes across Sherlock's face.

"And Susan a cat."

"Oh."

A few seconds pass.

"I knew that."

The stubborn git.

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No."

"...bye." Sherlock makes to leave my room.

"The email was from Donovan."

"What?"

"From Donovan. She said Anderson got it and wanted to see if you could."

Sherlock blinked.

Then started on an hour long rant on how fish shouldn't be given human names, how specifications should be given in riddles as to whether names pertain to people or animals, how Anderson was too stupid and had probably looked up the answer to the riddle, and how this riddle was completely stupid and useless.

When he finishes, he stormes out of my room, the drama queen he is.

And I decide, because I'm such a nice person, to not tell anyone at the Scotland Yard about the little tantrum.

But I can still bring his ego down, need be it. All I have to do is whisper "Fred."

 **I like this one the most. It's more of my best work. This is /exactly/ like what I wanted to do with this story. I may rewrite all of the older chapters someday...**

 **Kaishi Shouri: Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it!**


	7. The Lightbulb

"One more severed head in the fridge, and I am kicking you out, Sherlock!"

"You said that last time. And the time before. Actually, you've said it a total of twenty-three times in the past two months."

"No, I mean it this time. You do /not/ want to mess with me." At that moment, the light bulb above my head flickered and promptly went out.

"A plus for special effects."

I broke a lamp, a chair, and possibly one of my fingers in my first attempt to reach the socket. Sherlock, the unhelpful _git_ , refused to help me and instead, watched me silently from his chair with violin tucked under chin, amused smirk playing across pale skin. I climbed down from my perch on the sofa, setting the small glass bulb, the bane of my existence, down for a moment. "Would go a lot faster if you bothered to help!" I chided. Sherlock regarded me for a moment.

"Where's the fun in that?"

I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, eyes scanning the room for something to stand on. Attempt number two- I climbed up on the coffee table, light bulb in hand. As I reached up, _so close_ to being able to screw in the _fucking_ light bulb, the table decided to collapse under me. Sherlock let out a single huff of laughter as I crawled out of the wreckage of the coffee table. Upon closer inspection, the table was being held together by duct tape and super glue on the underside.

"Do I want to know why?"

"You really don't."

A dozen Band-Aids later, my attempts resumed. This time, I climbed on the edge of Sherlock's chair, almost reaching the socket before the idiot scraped the bow across his violin; a whining screech that startled me, making me lose my balance. I tumbled off my precarious position, falling and landing on a rather surprised Sherlock. "Boys, what is all that noise- Oh!" Mrs. Hudson smiled at the image of me sitting on Sherlock's lap, hair disheveled, face red. "I'll leave you both to...whatever you were doing." She rushed down the stairs, falling to cover up her exited giggles.

 **Maybe I'll change the end later. I had this written a while ago, but the ending was John's "I am not gay" thing but that didn't seem right. So, this is what I have. After a week of playing with the ending I'm deleting the last line. I hate apologizing, but coughing your lungs out and simultaneously trying to pull up math grades that are sinking like the Titanic doesn't help with writing. I'm done talking now. Thank you for reading, you lovely, patient people.**


	8. Sherlock Holmes's Employment

"Murder, John!"

"You go. I'm tired."

"How are you tired?"

"I just got home from dealing with sniveling kids dripping snot, stupid teenagers with broken bones, and idiots convinced they know better than a man who spent years in medical school. _And_ thanks to you torturing the poor violin, I haven't slept in a bloody week. I'm tired. You go solve the murder, I'll just sit out on this one."

"I don't understand it. You sit in a chair all day, tell people what's wrong with them, and you come home and say you're _tired_?" Sherlock sulked, spitting out the last word.

"Sherlock, if you'd ever had a job, a proper job, you'd know."

"Is that a challenge?"

"If you say so."

"In that case, the game, my dear blogger, is on!"

And so began the adventure of Sherlock Holmes' employment.

 **...**

First was the coffee shop.

Sherlock texted me while I was at the surgery to tell me about his success at securing a job.

 **Alright, I'll stop by after my shift. Where did you manage to get a job? -JW**

 **Coffee shop. The one we went to last week for the stakeout. SH**

 **A coffee shop? How long do you think that will last? An hour? Half? -JW**

 **I can keep a job for more than an hour. You underestimate me, John. SH**

 **How long until you start insulting customers? -JW**

 **I'm capable of staying quiet, you know. SH**

 **...**

He really wasn't. I'm actually rather surprised he lasted as long as he did.

Long story short, the idiot had already been playing his 'deducing-and-insulting-people-to-tears' game long before I arrived. The customers, needless to say, were furious and called the owner to kick him out. I, who valiantly defended my friend by standing to side and recording the whole thing on my phone to send to the Yard, was dragged out of the shop and onto the curb alongside Sherlock.

Nevertheless, we sit on the side of the street and crack up about the alarming shade of red the manager's face had been. After a few minutes, I sigh and stand up, brushing off my jeans.

"You told me you could keep your insults to yourself."

"Deductions, John, and I am capable of doing so, yes. But I chose not to."

"That lasted," I check my phone. "Half an hour."

"Thirty-three minutes, fourteen seconds. And I'm not tired at all."

"Being a barista isn't stressful."

"Then I'll go find a stressful job."

 **...**

 **A candy shop? -JW**

 **I'll be dealing with sniveling kids. That's what you complained about, isn't it? SH**

 **Where are you? -JW** I ask, hopping into a cab. He gives me the address and I repeat it to the driver.

Ten minutes later, I walk into the brightly colored shop to see Sherlock in a white-and-red striped vest and a matching hat. Obviously, I bust out laughing.

"John," he whispers, distressed. "They took my suit!"

That just makes me laugh harder. I sit down on a little wooden stool to catch my breath, still shaking, while a little girl comes up to him, places some money on the counter and asks for a candy bar. He grabs one and glares at the foil-wrapped treat with disdain.

"You sure you want to eat this? It contains-" I clear my throat loudly. Sherlock shuts up.

 **...**

I'm still with Sherlock ten minutes later when a young woman in a raggedy coat and hat enters the shop.

"Sorry, I've no change."

"Don't worry, it's on me, Sweetheart." Sherlock says, slipping her a large box of chocolates. He winks when she thanks him. After the door has slammed shut behind her, I turn to Sherlock, incredulous.

"Did you just _flirt_?" "Homeless network. I slipped her a note with some instructions. 'Sweetheart' and a wink means I want the information by the river at three."

"Hey!" We turn around to see the manager, who had evidently seen the whole exchange. Before I can stop him, Sherlock goes into his natural defense mode.

"Youngest of five, grew up in Germany, two- no, three children; twin boys and a girl. Tried to quit smoking multiple times, still unsuccessful. Married twelve years, unsteady with wife, both of you are cheating with multiple others, including-" He was cut off by a rather large fist flying towards his face.

 **...**

"Has it stopped bleeding?"

"No, not yet."

"That didn't last at all, did it?"

"Hmm, no."

 **...**

Sherlock proved to to have an odd knack for getting weird jobs and immediately losing them. Over the next few weeks, he got fired nearly every day and had a new job the very next.

 **...**

"A chef? Sherlock, you can't cook to save your life!"

"What do you know of my culinary abilities?"

"I /live/ with you!"

"Valid point."

 **...**

"Mycroft's PA?"

"Anthea's got a week off."

(And the poor woman had to come back after only one day because the Holmes brothers got in fight that resulted in the Diogenes club being set on fire. Among other things.)

 **...**

" _You're a what?!_ "

"A kissogram, John. Do try and keep up."

 **...**

And I don't even want to bring up Sherlock's brief modeling career.

 **...**

About a month after our little bet, I come home to Sherlock laying on the sofa, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin.

"No new job then, today?"

"Nope."

"I told you keeping a steady job was hard. Remember that the next time you break into the surgery and demand tea."

"That was one time, John."

"It happens at least three times a week."

Sherlock chuckles softly. "Well, I still won the bet; before I even met you, in fact."

"How?" I laugh.

"I've been a Consulting Detective for years John. I haven't been fired once."

"You're the only one in the world, as you keep reminding us all. You can't fire yourself."

"Gavin would like to, I imagine."

"If _Greg_ could, yes, probably."

"And then he would be begging me to come back."

"A week, tops."

"More like a few hours."

 **...**

"Chinese tonight?"

"Nope. The owner's never going to let me set foot in there after that little incident last week."

"The one with the laxatives in the soup? You bet he won't."

"I don't understand why he was so angry. It was just an experiment."

"The little chip shop at the end of the street?"

"Nope, got fired from there too. Apparently, I can't just tell the customers who's cheating on who."

"When did that happen?"

"Hmm...About an hour before the Chinese place hired me."

"So Angelo's then?"

"Angelo's."

 **First part's a bit OOC; I doubt John would ever turn down a case. Anyone have ideas on how to tie it up better? I wasn't sure how to end this. In fact, the majority of this was written a week ago and I've been working on the ending ever since. Juliana Brandagamba- Thanks for always reading and reviewing! I appreciate your support! :) Thank you so much for reading! Have a fantastic day!**


	9. Insanity

**Insanity**

The people of Baker Street now officially think Sherlock is insane.

Today he was throwing a fit about Mrs. Hudson having stolen his skull, and he thought that the best way to get it back was to stand in the street and scream, very, _very_ loudly.

"SHE TOOK MY SKULL! MAKE HER GIVE IT BACK!"

...

By now, I was used to my flatmate, and his strange habits. Not sleeping for days, playing his violin at three in the morning, and the eccentric cases we tackled. And the body parts. Eyeballs in the microwave, fingers in the living room, severed heads in the refrigerator; I had long since given up on correcting any of Sherlock's habits.

But this? This was new. And also-

"Completely unacceptable! Sherlock, I don't even know what to say to this. I just..."

I covered my face with my hands, trying to stop myself from giggling.

 _Giggling._

 _Yup, I've lost it,_ I thought.

 _Completely lost it._

I stared at my friend, doing an autopsy on the (quite literally) bloody kitchen table.

"Alright, carry on!"

...

"Are you _singing_?"

"Hmm. Problem?"

"No, but your choice in song is alarming."

At this, Sherlock starts yelling the lyrics.

"AND I CAN'T HELP, FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU!"

...

"Are you on YouTube?"

"Case."

"What case requires you to watch...ten hours of cat videos?"

"A very difficult one."

...

Sherlock didn't seem to grasp that I was married.

That I was no longer his flatmate, and that I didn't live with him anymore.

He's let himself in more times than I remember. I've been woken up at three in the morning dozens of times when he would drag me out of bed for a case.

He'd break into the house in the middle of the night, steal the milk, and leave Mary and I wondering where it went the next morning. The only reason we found out was because we found him passed out on the sofa once, milk cradled in arms.

 **Complete OOC rubbish because I need to laugh at myself.**

 **One of the worse chapters yet, considering how much I worked on and was proud of the previous chapter.**

 **Speaking of which, thanks to the people who reviewed last chapter, you all made my day!**

 **14fox** **\- Thank you! I agree; Sherlock's like a five year old, and John's stuck babysitting.**

 **Juliana Brandagamba** **\- Thanks again for reviewing! I don't know how he did it! :)**

 **I'm also leaving for India in a few weeks for the summer, so a two month hiatus is coming.**

 **Have a great weekend!**


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